


27 Dicks Pointing Me Straight Back to You

by youshallnotfinditso



Category: American Vandal (TV)
Genre: Get together fic, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi Chapter, Underage Drinking, nana's party, peter's jake gyllenhaal boner, teen makeouts, time jumps
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-08-29 11:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16743019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youshallnotfinditso/pseuds/youshallnotfinditso
Summary: Things Peter knows are true:- Sam kissed him- Sam wouldn’t have kissed him if he’d gone to Rachel Balducci’s party with GabiOr; Does Sam have feelings for Peter? Is Peter just a stand-in for the person Sam actually has a crush on? And while we're asking questions, what is the deal with Pat Micklewaite?Peter Maldonado is on the case.





	27 Dicks Pointing Me Straight Back to You

It goes like this: 

Pre-gaming totally makes up for the lame factor of being a boyfriend stand-in at a party Sam wasn’t even invited to. Pre-gaming says ‘It doesn’t even matter that I was your second choice, ’cuz I had so many other things going on tonight. Maybe you were _my_ second choice. Ever think about that?’ And honestly, even though Sam wasn’t about to say _no_ to going to Rachel Balducci’s party with Gabi and a bunch of seniors, he’d kind of been planning to see if Peter wanted to come over and watch some movies. So it’s not even really a lie. 

But it feels like a lie, crushing an empty Shock Top bottle down to the bottom of the trash by the basement fridge while checking his phone for the fourth time in five minutes. Like, he’s not even sure if he can call himself buzzed. His vision blurs a little faster when he turns his head, but he doesn’t feel— however he’d thought that he was going to. Braver? More excited? Like he didn’t spend 30 minutes debating whether skinny jeans _and_ hair gel _and_ Converse make him look like he’s trying too hard? He spares a guilty glance at the basement door and grabs another beer. 

He’d been thinking earlier — like, the moment Gabi texted him yesterday afternoon, earlier — that maybe he could convince Gabi to help him ambush Peter, just pull up to his house on the way to Rachel’s without any warning and load him into the car. Because Peter’s not super great with spontaneity and he’s never been very good with confrontation, so maybe Sam and his try-hard party outfit could throw him off enough to give it a try. And that’s all it would take. Because people _do_ actually like Peter when it occurs to them to think about it, and Peter _is_ capable of relaxing and having fun when he has no other choice. But Pete’s been livetexting The Fast and the Furious movies at Sam for the past several hours now, and it seems like he’s pretty settled in for the night. He did offer to put something else on if Sam wanted to stop by, but then he would have to get one of his parents to drive him out to Peter’s house just to get picked up by Gabi right after. And, well, Peter probably doesn’t want to get dragged to some dumb party anyway, even if Sam’s going. 

So it’s a no-go on cashing in the social collateral he has with Gabi to look cool in front of Peter, but tonight should still be fun. He loves hanging out with Gabi, and since Brandon’s grounded she might actually let Sam bitch about what a douchebag he is for a little while. Maybe she’ll even join in with some complaints of her own. She can laugh at Sam while he gets wasted for the first time, they can get all emotional about her graduating without it being weird, they’ll take a ton of dumb selfies, and then every time Peter likes one of his Instagram posts Sam will get that shaky-adrenaline feeling he’s started craving ever since he realized what was causing it.

His phone buzzes, and this time it’s not Peter with more commentary on stunt drivers vs. CGI. 

_I didn’t forget about you don’t worry!!! If you’re ready to go just walk over bc brandon’s picking us up from my house_

Sam stares at his phone until his eyes unfocus, like maybe if he can’t read Gabi’s text that’ll erase it from reality or something. 

_I thought he was grounded ?_ He types back, knowing he’s about to sever his last line of hope.

 _Yeah omg so he WAS but he went with his dad to get the watch fixed and mr. galloway was all like well that can be enough to Learn That Your Actions Have Consequences or whatever so he’s ungrounded nowwww 🎉🎉🎉🎉_

_Also like Marty Kostecki’s the one who spilled Natty Light on it it wasn’t even really Brandon’s fault_

Sam types out _Debatable_ , waits a few seconds, and then deletes it before sending _He still borrowed it without asking tho_

_I mean yeahhhh but like ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯_

_Are you on your way over? the side garage is unlocked_

Sam can still picture the night he’d had planned out so clearly — laughing with Gabi, finally getting to talk about life shit, relaxing enough to get fun and drunk without overthinking it — and tries to superimpose Brandon into it. Which doesn’t work, like, at all. 

_Idk I mean you don’t really need me to be your plus one anymore_

The three little gray dots indicating that Gabi’s typing hover for a long time, but when a new message appears all it says is _Oh my god Sam forreal?_

And _that’s_ fucking annoying because it’s not like _he’s_ the one who changed the plans and ruined everything. 

_I totally blew off Peter for this because you were gonna be lonely but if I’m just gonna be your third wheel then like why_

Bringing Peter into it must help, because Gabi immediately replies _We can bring Peter!!! I can tell Brandon to stop at his house_

He can picture it now: Peter fumbling to make small talk through Brandon’s not-really-jokes about the morning show and the fact that Sam takes too many selfies and the fact that neither of them have girlfriends, and oh is that what they’re hoping to get out of the party? Do they need help? Do they need Brandon’s shitty opinion on every girl at their school? Do they need his totally helpful douchebag flirting tips? Do they need to get laid? Because Brandon’s _so_ good at getting people laid. He’s so good at getting laid, guys. 

No fucking thank you. 

_Im just gonna hang out with Peter. You and Brandon have fun though_

Gabi replies with a frowny face, so he adds _tell me about the party tomorrow, let’s walk to dunkin or u can drive us to bubble tea or something_

Sam pops the cap off the beer he’s been holding, taking a few sips as he waits for Gabi to text back. He’s about a third of the way through it before he realizes Brandon must’ve come and picked her up already. 

He starts to type _Brandon’s not driving you home right? Cuz you know he’s gonna get wasted_ and then deletes it. If Gabi’s mad at him, that’ll just make her more annoyed.

Sam leans back against the basement wall, sliding down until he hits the floor and hugging his knees to his chest. He lets his phone fall out of his hand and clatter against the tile. Fucking phone. Fucking Brandon Galloway. Fucking half-finished Shock Top that he’s just drinking for no reason now.

He lets himself wallow for maybe thirty seconds before he breaks and checks his messages, but Gabi still hasn’t replied. Without really stopping to plan his next move, he finds himself pulling up his texts with Peter and typing _can you come over?_

His thumb hovers over the send button for a minute. He’d decided against dragging Peter out to the party because it seemed like he was really enjoying his night in, but it’s not like he’d be asking him to go _do_ something. They can still stay in and watch movies. But the idea of going upstairs smelling like Shock Top and then having to endure the 20 minute ride to Peter’s while his mom asks really unsubtle questions about how he’s been doing lately, like ….. that’s not happening. In keeping with the spirit of Fuck It that he’s decided to adopt, he takes a long drink of beer, chokes on it a little, and then sends the text. 

He gets a text back almost immediately. Good old Peter.

_Aren’t you and Gabi hanging out?_

_Brandon got ungrounded so she ditched me._ Sam feels a little twinge of guilt for exaggerating, but not enough to take it back. It’s whatever, he’ll clear it up once it stops feeling so much like that’s what happened.

_That sucks, man_

_I know right?_

Peter doesn’t say anything else for a little bit, and it could very well be that he’s getting his stuff ready to come over, but Sam just cannot deal with waiting right now. 

_Sorry, I would come over but I smell like beer and my mom’s gonna be weird about it the whole drive_

Peter replies with the eyes emoji, and Sam grins a little bit. It’s dumb, but it does feel kind of cool and illicit to be able to say he’s been drinking.

 _I’m not even drunk beer is a scam,_ Sam shoots back, half trying to reassure Peter that he’s fine and half totally humblebragging.

Another instantaneous reply: _Maybe people drink it for the taste_

_Gross_

When there’s no response, it occurs to Sam that maybe Peter was kind of sort of roundaboutly trying to be including without coming right out and asking, so he adds _im gonna save some for you and then remind you that you said that_

Sam’s chest tightens to a stupid degree when Peter replies _Leaving right now, don’t drink it all_

He’s not drunk, per se, just— there is drink in him, and the whole thing with Gabi and Brandon’s already got him feeling sorry for himself, so while he’s here he might as well indulge in it. It’s been a solid few months since he finally admitted to himself that just having the most epic and legendary bro-ship with Peter isn’t really cutting it anymore. Like, seven private Spotify playlists levels of not cutting it anymore. But he doesn’t even know what it is that he wants right now. The idea of saying anything to him, even tentatively thinking the word ‘boyfriend,’ makes Sam want to melt into the floor and die. But every time Peter posts a dumb picture on instagram or raises his hand in class to ask about something only Peter will ever care about or chews the side of his thumb while he’s concentrating or gets that steely, determined look on his face right before the morning show goes live — fuck. It’s like getting stabbed to death with a pair of tweezers, except he’s stupidly in love with this pair of tweezers and doesn’t actually want it to stop.

Sam guiltily closes out of Peter’s twitter when he hears him upstairs. It’s honestly kind of sad how much time he spends creeping on Peter’s social media pages considering that they’re almost always texting each other or hanging out. And it’s not like Peter would ever tweet something like “hey I’d love it if my best friend were secretly jerking off to my Instagram photos all the time,” but Sam _does_ spend a lot of time picking the perfect song to screenshot for his snapchat story every day so it’s not _totally_ unbelievable that Peter might start doing it back someday.

Just _mostly_ unbelievable. 

The basement door creaks open, and Sam practically flings himself across the sitting area to the couch so that he’ll look casual and disaffected instead of like a giant mess of anxiety and hurt feelings, washing it all down with some truly terrible beer.

“It’s me,” Peter calls down the stairs, a practice he’d adapted after the fourth time he came downstairs looking for Sam only to walk in on Sam’s older sister and her boyfriend making out on the couch. 

“Hey, come on down,” Sam calls back. He sets the beer in a prominent place on the coffee table. It’s still over half full, as promised, and okay, yes he could just go get another beer from the fridge, but a) beer is disgusting, so the less they have to drink the better, and b) there’s this kind of gross part of him that just like latched onto the idea of Peter putting his mouth right where Sam’s had been, and he can’t let it go. 

“Hey,” Peter says when he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and he cocks his head a little as he takes in what Sam’s wearing. Sam tries not to gape right back. Peter’s wearing an old gray hoodie that he sometimes sleeps in, a hoodie that’s featured in so many fantasies Sam feels caught every time Peter wears it around him. He’s messing with the sleeves, pulling them up over his hands and then rolling them back to normal with this nervous energy that makes Sam want to grab his hands and interlace their fingers together. Peter’s gaze slides over to the Shock Top on the coffee table and then snaps right back to Sam, like he’s going to get in trouble just for looking.

Sam grabs the beer. If it’s up to Peter to ask for it, they’ll have to sit here all night while he works up the nerve. “I saved you some,” he says, holding it up. “Is it, like, do you care that I drank out of it?”

“Since when do we care about that?” Peter retorts, which is a fair point and also kind of a callout — Sam does mooch off Peter’s food at lunch all the time. Peter flops down on the couch next to Sam, clearly relieved. He grabs the bottle and squints at it.

“Dude, don’t overthink it. It’s like medicine, just get it over with.”

“Okay,” Peter says grimly, like Sam’s telling him how to cauterize a stab wound or wishing him good luck on a precalc test.

He takes a long drink, managing not to choke or even cringe that much, and Sam can’t help but beam at him. He feels bizarrely proud.

“Yeah, there you go!” Sam cheers, shoving at his shoulder good-naturedly.

“Huh,” Peter says, turning the bottle over to examine the grinning orange slice logo. “It has oranges in it?”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be sweeter than like Bud, but it just, I dunno, it just tastes like somebody drank a bunch of orange juice and then peed it into a bottle.”

“It’s kind of okay,” Peter says pensively, and then sips again. “I bet you could like, if you like poured this over vanilla ice cream like a root beer float, I bet that would taste really good.”

Sam makes a disgusted noise, and Peter laughs, ducking his head a little. “Is it okay if I finish it?”

“ _Ugh_ , yeah get that away from me.”

He keeps sipping at it with this look of immense concentration, and Sam indulges in staring at him because the momentous occasion of Peter’s first beer seems like a decent enough excuse for it. Well, decent until Peter glances over and catches him at it, locking eyes as he sets the beer down and clears his throat like he’s about to say something very serious. _Shit_. 

“So ... Gabi,” Peter says abruptly, and it takes Sam’s brain a few seconds of frantic whirring before he puts together what Peter’s even talking about. “She really just ditched you? That feels completely out of character for her. Do you think Brandon put her up to it?”

Sam groans. “I really don’t want to think about Gabi and Brandon right now, man.”

“Oh,” Peter says awkwardly. Fuck, he probably rehearsed all the comforting things he was going to say during the ride here. “Um, I just— I just thought that was why you wanted me to come over.”

It’s not like Sam can say _I really just wanted to see you because I’m sad but I love you and hanging out with you makes everything better_ , so he leans his head on Peter’s shoulder for a second and says “I just thought watching movies and shit would be better than, like, being a sad loser in my basement all night.” 

“Cuz now we’re two sad losers in your basement,” Peter says, but he’s smiling a little. 

“No c’mon, we’re totally, like, drinking and shit. We’re like actually doing normal teenage rebellion.”

“Yeah, okay,” Peter laughs, finishing the beer and setting the empty bottle on the coffee table. Sam’s about to offer to get him another one, but when Peter settles back into the couch their shoulders are touching and all of a sudden Sam cannot move from this spot. 

“I didn’t bring any of the Fast and the Furious movies— I’m too far in to start over but you shouldn’t start watching with the fourth one because you’re gonna miss out on all this character development that’s really crucial to the storyline.”

Sam bites back a laugh. He knows how much Peter loves shitty actions movies, and he can kind of respect that, but whenever he starts talking about them like he’s a film student it’s just really hard to take seriously. 

“I was actually thinking maybe we could watch Almost Famous?” Sam says, even though he’s not actually sure Peter’s going to like it at all, and if Peter hates it that’s totally going to suck because Almost Famous might be his favorite movie ever. 

“Is that, um, is that the movie you said was why you wanted to join the morning show?” 

God, Sam’s totally blushing. He didn’t think Peter would remember that. “I mean, it wasn’t like the _whole_ reason why. It was just like, when you said you wanted to sign up I was like fuck, man, that sounds kinda fun and I love Almost Famous, so like why not, you know? It wasn’t like, I didn’t watch it and get all like _wow, this is my calling in life_. So if we watch it and you hate it I’m not gonna like quit the morning show. Like, I totally won’t care if you hate it.” 

“I’m probably not gonna hate it,” Peter says diplomatically. 

After Sam gets up to get the DVD and start the movie, he makes sure to leave an inch or so of space between himself and Peter when he sits back down on the couch. They’re already watching his favorite movie, that’s probably enough feelings shit to overwhelm the whole evening. 

Peter gives him a dubious look when the opening credits start up accompanied by The Chipmunk Song, but cracks up when Sam recites “Honey, they’re _on pot!_ ” in perfect unison with Frances McDormand. He has some nitpicks here and there, but he seems to be enjoying it, and Sam relaxes a little more with each good-natured debate — swatting Peter’s arm when he reaches for his phone to try to fact check, letting Peter bump shoulders with him every time a character says something Sam always references, kicking Peter’s ankles when he talks through an important part — suffocating crush feelings aside, Peter’s still his best friend, and there’s something easy and familiar about hanging out like this that makes the Gabi and Brandon thing seem far away.

That is, until Sam’s leg brushes up against Peter’s, and in some kind of aneurysm of boldness he just doesn’t move it away. And Peter doesn’t move _his_ leg away. And Sam’s heart crawls so far up his throat he thinks he might actually puke.

“No _way_ is Drew Barrymore 16 in this,” Peter says indignantly. “She was _in ET_.” 

“That’s Kate Hudson,” Sam wails, dismayed, and buries his face in the shoulder of Peter’s hoodie. “You’re never going to make it in film if you can’t even tell Kate Hudson and Drew Barrymore apart.” 

Peter doesn’t hit him with a comeback, just sits there kind of quietly. After at least a full minute of uneasy silence, Sam lifts his head. “Hey, sorry— you’re right. They do look super alike.”

“Yeah, they do,” Peter says with a probably a little more crabbiness than Sam’s initial comment actually warrants. 

Sam’s not sure he’s going to be able to handle it if both of his best friends are mad at him tonight, so he snakes an arm behind Peter and hugs him against him. “You’re gonna be the best film major ever.”

“Um, okay,” Peter says, awkwardly patting Sam’s shoulder. Sam’s about to pull away from him and scoot, like, an entire foot over on the couch when Peter relaxes against him, adjusting so that Sam can sit with his arm around him and nestle into his side.

“Are you sure you’re not drunk?” Peter asks, and with his head turned like that Sam can feel Peter’s breath on the side of his face, and that probably shouldn’t be hot but _oh my god_. 

“Super _duper_ sure,” Sam says, which might be the most unconvincing thing he could say in combination with the way he’s kind of trying to bury his face in Peter’s neck, but Peter doesn’t contest it. He smells good in such a familiar, comforting way, like old fabric and sweat and that Amish soap his mom gets at the farmers’ market. And there’s something else, something that kind of smells like honey.

“Are you wearing that fancy homemade lip stuff?” Sam laughs, and Peter goes _weirdly_ rigid, like maybe he’s self-conscious about that. For most of last year, Peter had been kicking around the idea of an independent research project exposing chapstick manufacturers for putting irritants in their products. Sam was more willing to entertain the idea that this was just an internet conspiracy, but even he’d begun to notice the way that every time Peter put on Blistex his skin got all cracked and irritated. They’d conducted a ton of research, put together a filming schedule, and were even starting to reach out to potential interview subjects until Peter found out he was actually just allergic to camphor. Go figure.

Peter threw out all his chapsticks, and they scrapped the project. In what probably counts as the reachiest, most desperate move of the century, Sam had also thrown out his own Blistex, just in case.

“Uh, yeah, it’s allergy season,” Peter says, a little defensively. “Why?”

“I just can smell it,” Sam says, and with the way he has his face in Peter’s neck his mouth kind of brushes against skin. “It smells like honey.”

Peter shifts so that the arm behind Sam on the couch is properly around him, like, _arm-around-your-movie-date_ around him, curving around the small of Sam’s back with his hand resting just above Sam’s hip. If Sam’s heart starts beating any faster he honestly thinks he might pass out. 

“Yeah, it, uh, it has beeswax in it, so. It does that. And it tastes like honey too, it’s like totally— it’s really sweet.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Sam says, in a voice that’s eerily level for what he’s doing— what the _fuck_ is he even doing? He’s having an out-of-body experience, is what’s happening, while somebody calm and in control just swings his leg over Peter’s lap so that he’s straddling him, leans down and kisses him right on the mouth like it’s something they do every day.

Holy. Fuck.

There’s a panicked line of _this is my first kiss and I have The Oogum Boogum Song stuck in my head because of Almost Famous which we’re not even watching anymore but the DVD’s still going and we probably should have paused it_ — screaming through an undercurrent of his brain, but it’s mostly drowned out by the fact that Peter made this little _noise_ when their mouths made contact and now his hands are scrunching up the sides of Sam’s shirt and Sam— what are Sam’s hands doing? He kind of forgot he had hands, honestly, but now they’re on Peter’s neck, on his _neck_ , Sam’s allowed to _touch him_ on his neck, on his _face_ —

They both gasp a little when they break apart, but Sam dives right back in, panicked that if they stop they’re going to stop for good.

 _Holy fuck, we’re actually doing this, we’re doing this so good_ flashes through his mind when he can form a coherent thought, and in a rush of confidence Sam tries to slip his tongue into Peter’s mouth, accidentally licking his entire chin in the process.

Peter makes that _Hm!_ noise he always makes when he’s eating something he doesn’t like and is about to lie and say it’s great.

“Sorry, I missed,” Sam says, his voice a little hoarse. He pulls the long sleeve of his baseball tee over his hand and wipes his spit off Peter’s chin, Peter staring at him wide-eyed the whole time. He doesn’t make fun of Sam for being terrible at kissing — he doesn’t say anything at all, like if he so much as breathes they’re both going to wake up from this dream alone. 

Tentatively, and with such a look of concentration it makes Sam want to cry, Peter reaches up to place a hand on Sam’s cheek, guiding him back to kiss him again. Sam can feel him raise his other hand, cradling Sam’s face, and then feels his thumbs pressing at the corners of Sam’s mouth, forcing his mouth open wider so they can really, properly make out. Sam feels like he’s going to _melt_ , clinging on to fistfuls of the front of Peter’s sweatshirt so he won’t just collapse in a heap while his brain short-circuits. 

He pulls away to catch his breath, savoring the way Peter’s pupils are so dilated they’re basically taking over his irises. Sam wonders if he looks just as wild as Peter does— eyes blown out, flushing like he just ran a marathon, lips completely fucked up.

Wait.

“Dude, is your mouth— what’s happening to your mouth right now?”

Peter starts to laugh, like it’s a joke, faltering when he sees that Sam’s actually worried. He raises a hand to his lips and then just stares at his fingers like he expects there to be blood. “Oh geez, that kind of hurt.”

“I didn’t, like, I didn’t bite you or anything,” Sam says awkwardly.

Peter doesn’t say anything in response to that, which Sam is grateful for. “Are you wearing Blistex?”

“No, you’re allergic to Blistex,” Sam says like this is new information.

“I’m allergic to camphor,” Peter says, which also is not new information. “A common ingredient in several brand-name lip products.”

“Oh,” Sam says quietly, pulling a ChapStick out of his jeans pocket.

Peter winces. “Yeah, that’ll do it.”

“Fuck, dude, my bad.”

“It’s okay,” Peter says awkwardly, shifting a little. Sam scrambles to his feet, trying to give him as much space as he could ever possibly need. Fuck, he totally botched this.

“Do you, like, are you going to break out in hives? Like, do we need to go to the emergency room?”

“No, no,” Peter says, “um, but if your mom has any, like, calamine lotion or hydrocortisone cream, that’d be great.”

“Awesome,” Sam says, clapping his hands together once, briskly, thankful to have something to do instead of just standing here uselessly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Peter says in this awkward little voice, and Sam kind of wants to lean back down and kiss him again, but with his luck that’d just make everything worse.

He flees upstairs, making a beeline for the bathroom cabinet where his mom keeps aspirin and sunscreen and other generic, over-the-counter medical supplies.

“Sam, is that you?” He hears from the kitchen, and he pops his head out of the bathroom.

“Lindsay?!”

“Yeah dude, get in here!”

As if this evening couldn’t get more complicated.

His sister jumps up and hugs him when he rounds the corner, their mom beaming at them from where she’s sitting at the kitchen table. Lindsay’s purse and car keys are on the table where she’d been sitting, backpack on the floor like she just walked in and hasn’t even stopped by her bedroom yet.

“I thought you weren’t coming home until tomorrow night,” Sam says, trying to sound excited instead of alarmed and hiding something. Which— it’s not even like he has anything to hide, except— it’s not like this is something he can just blurt out to his mom or sister either, _hey Peter’s downstairs and we were just making out and I don’t actually know what that means for the two of us or for me or for what I’ll ever want you to do about it, but it’s great to see you too!_

“Yeahhh, that was the plan, but I was just having, like, roommate shit so I thought I’d come home early and chill with my _super cool fam_ ,” she says, ruffling Sam’s hair just because she knows he hates it. “Oh my god, that is so much hair gel. Oh, dude, are you going somewhere?” She asks, fully taking in his whole outfit, which, god it must look so stupid.

“Uhhhh, I was going to go to this thing with Gabi,” he says, and his mom might think she’s subtle but Sam totally clocks the look she gives Lindsay. “But it didn’t work out, so Peter’s here. We’re watching Almost Famous.”

“Oh, _great movie_ ,” Lindsay says automatically, like she can’t even help it. Sam grins a little. There’s a part of him that’s dying to drag her upstairs so they can dish — she’s his _sister_ , she has advice about _everything_ , and he just had his first kiss watching their favorite movie and that’s kind of iconic, right? — but it’s not enough to overcome the part of him that wants their relationship to stay as familiar as possible while they get used to the fact that she’s away at college all the time now.

“He’s actually, uh, so he’s still downstairs and I just came up here because I need some, like, medical lotion? Cuz, you know how he’s allergic to Blistex?”

“Yeah, the chapstick conspiracy?” Lindsay supplies, cracking up.

“Shut up,” Sam says. “Um, so yeah we all know he’s allergic to Blistex but also apparently some other brands too that we, uh, that he didn’t know about so he’s kind of having an allergic reaction— _not a bad one!_ ” Sam supplies when his mom stands up, concerned, “but like, he wanted to know if we had like allergy lotion or something to put on his mouth because it’s all messed up.”

“Did it sound like something really specific, or do you think they’d have it at Walgreens?” Sam’s mom asks, which is a fair question because Peter’s mom sure does love her super fancy soaps and lotions.

“It sounded medicine-y, so probably Walgreens is fine.”

“Ooh,” Lindsay says, “we should all go to Walgreens and _then_ we should go to _Cold Stone_ ,” which would normally be the kind of thing Sam would be _all over._ He’s been missing his sister like crazy all year, he loves going out for ice cream, he loves when his favorite people all get to be in the same place for a little while, and yet—

Peter’s waiting for him in the basement. The movie’s probably still playing, and Sam wants more than anything to just go and pick up where they left off.

Lindsay looks at him expectantly, and when he turns to his mom she’s got this fond smile on her face. “You don’t even have to ask, I think that’s a great idea.”

“Sweet,” Sam says, his mouth dry. “I’ll go tell Peter to put his shoes on.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not exist without phonecallfromgod. Thanks for coming up with such an amazing concept, and for letting me take it and run with it! Thank you for motivating me to get it written (because BOY I needed a lot of motivation), and for giving me permission to borrow these ideas:  
> > Sam and Peter made out the night of Nana's Party, it's why Peter's case against Sam is so personal, and it's why they're so cagey about not being invited to the party in S1E5  
> > Sam having a sister named Lindsay who is three years older than him  
> > Ashley Hanson being a dude in Lindsay's grade who was part of the morning show  
> > Gabi having an older brother named Daniel who is Lindsay's boyfriend  
> > Peter seeing London Has Fallen alone was in fact a failed date attempt
> 
> I'd also like to give a shoutout to my wonderful girlfriend who has endured SO much infodumping about a show she's never seen, you're a star, and oneorangeshoelace for binging the show with me and putting up with the increasingly desperate parallels I keep drawing between American Vandal and The Black Tapes Podcast (a show I cannot recommend in good faith but WILL recommend in poor taste).


End file.
